


my body's broken, yours is bent

by Larrant



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Dark, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Porn With Plot, Slice of Life, Tyrell-centric, what are these tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 12:34:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7439563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larrant/pseuds/Larrant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyrell starts visiting Elliot.</p><p>Everything just devolves from there.</p><p><b>EDIT:</b> quick reformatting on 12/28/16.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my body's broken, yours is bent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gore_Slash_Are_My_Favorite_Things](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gore_Slash_Are_My_Favorite_Things/gifts).



> basically this fic is the tags. in order. except for asphyxiation which goes somewhere inbetween everything.
> 
> also, important notice right here: listen to this song, [Dom Andra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hUz_9tUD1TQ) by Kent. it’s probably the theme song i have for tyrell in this fic. maybe it’s because i myself have many memories and feelings associated with that song, but. heh. (somebody who knows me probably already knows how much i am in love with kent)
> 
> i wanted to write elliot/tyrell again, in preparation for season 2. mostly i wanted to write tylliot and this was a /wonderful/ opportunity, and basically i wrote all of this on my birthday and it has been exactly a month now that i’m finally getting around to editing and adding on and posting it)

 

 

_._

_._

_._

  
_Carve your name into my arm._  
_Instead of stressed, I lie here charmed._  
_Cuz there's nothing else to do,  
Every me and every you._

 _Sucker love, a box I choose._  
_No other box I choose to use._  
_Another love I would abuse,  
No circumstances could excuse._

 _All alone in space and time._  
_There's nothing here but what here's mine._  
_Something borrowed, something blue.  
Every me and every you._

 

 

* * *

 

_“Sense of wonder? Don’t try so hard.”_

_“Hm?”_

_“Trust me, you’re not even convincing yourself.”_

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, Elliot is slow on the uptake. Extremely slow on the uptake. As a matter of fact, he almost walks back into the wall when he sees Tyrell in the apartment, eyes wide with shock, almost something akin to horror if Tyrell didn't know Elliot better. A dog peers out between his legs and barks upon seeing Tyrell, wagging its tail.

Considering how much time Elliot has spent being shocked when he appears, Tyrell opts for tilting his head instead and taking another sip from the coffee mug in his hand. The man stares at him, looking utterly stunned.

“Bonsoir,” Tyrell says in lieu of greeting, and smiles.

 

* * *

 

For some reason, he almost gets booted out of the apartment.

 

* * *

 

Tyrell isn’t kicked out, somehow- maybe part of it has to do with the information bargaining he does, which to be fair benefits him far more than Elliot, and so that particular night he spends sleeping on a couch that simply smells like something _stale_.

The curtains are drawn tight- but somehow they’re still letting out the thinnest sliver of light into the darkness of the room, highlighting a wedge of a table and a line of the wall. It’s fairly disconcerting.

He ends up staying awake all night, eyes open and gazing at the peeling ceiling. There is no sound other than silence- not even the tick of a clock- which is fairly unsettling. He’s always been used to listening to the calm tick-tack from an electric clock on his wall.

He thinks about Elliot, wonders about all the inconsistencies surrounding the man, and then thinks about the awkward explanations he had been given. There would be more time to dig into that later.

The next day and he’s gone by the morning, borrowing one of Elliot’s hoodies and pulling the hood over his head as he leaves. It’s funny how he can look completely different by simply changing tops- enough that even though his face has been shown around the news several times now, nobody even looks at him twice in the street.

 

* * *

 

He’s ends up staying in some rundown warehouse- he’d persuaded the owner to give him the key, so there was at least the guarantee he wouldn’t find other people staying in the same place. When he gets the call in the middle of the night, he almost drops his cup of McDonalds latte (there’s no other 24/7 joint near him).

Afterwards, he looks at his phone again, scrolls down his contacts list to the J tab. He hesitates for a long time, before his phone switches itself off from inactivity and he shakes his head, forces himself to put the phone down and return to his computer.

 

* * *

 

“What are you doing here?” Elliot hisses, getting as close to Tyrell as possible in the span of three seconds without getting in the bounds of personal space, and Tyrell raises an eyebrow, “You can’t stay here.”

He looks panicked- extremely panicked in fact.

Mrs. Alderson’s head pops back in through the door, “Tea or coffee?” She smiles at Tyrell.

“Tea, thank you,” Tyrell smiles charmingly back, ignoring Elliot.

Elliot looks like he wants to die.

 

* * *

 

“What are _you_ doing here?” Tyrell asks Elliot eventually, over a cup of tea and a platter of biscuits.

Elliot stares at him blankly. The look is frustrating, as is the slow response that comes his way, “It’s my home.”

There is- quite justifiably- a question on the tip of Tyrell’s tongue, almost a made into a demand, before he reminds himself of patience, of waiting, and instead of being frustrated, his gaze flickers to the side and he nods. There must be something else going on, behind the scenes.

 

* * *

 

Well, he ends up ‘visiting’ more often than not- he has time enough to spare, time enough to waste waiting for something or someone who is not appearing- that and Elliot’s mother makes the best tea. Besides, once a week is fine for his schedule- it isn’t like he has much to do at the moment, in any case.

 

* * *

 

Even if Elliot’s mother thinks his name is Tyler.

 

* * *

 

The more time passes, the more news there is about him. Tyrell Wellick, the cyberterrorist who’s hacked the world. He wonders if ‘cyberterrorist’ isn’t a smoother title than ‘CTO’, and there’s a pit of something cold at the bottom of his stomach, something that he ignores. But at least it seems like they’re finally picking up the link- even if it's the wrong link.

There are articles everywhere about his disappearance, even on the fact the police want him for questioning on Sharon Knowles’ murder- they’ve even tried to call Joanna for information on him, only for the newspaper to state that she gave no comment or information. He’s angry for some inexplicable reason, the first time he reads about it, angry enough that his hand starts to shake before he clenches it into a fist.

And before he realizes it he’s already thinking about how he wants to go back- isn’t it natural, that he wants to be together with her again- it’s _only_ natural. He wants- well, he wants so many things, to see his son, to have Joanna there next to him (the only person who had ever understood him, had been the same as him)- and a moment when he realizes the train of thought he’s going down, he digs his nails deep enough into his palm to bruise, tries to stop it, and then deeper until he stops thinking about anything but the pain and he lets go with a hitch of his breath.

And then in his haste to keep that particular cloud of unwelcome thought out he starts looking up Elliot instead- ends up spending three hours trying to track the man down beginning from his googling his surname down to his checking his mother’s maiden name. Nothing returns a result. Even his mother has no online presence except for a telephone address and a house history- she’s a member of the generation that doesn’t see the point in social media.

(by the end of it, the red that had clotted on his palm has dried into an old brown, and he washes it off, wincing at the sting)

 

* * *

 

The day after, his hand is a bitten and bruised purple, nailmarks still visible on his skin. It’s imperfect, it looks ugly, and after a little hesitation he heads to a shop to buy a pair of gloves to cover the marks- it’s yet another slip in his control, a slip in a long and ugly history of them.

( _the small things that keep him so repulsively human_ )

When he next sees Elliot, he’s still wearing his gloves- black, fingerless, bought to give the impression that he’s wearing them for style and nothing else- but the man seems to notice them anyway, his gaze lingering on Tyrell’s hand for a moment longer than necessary before he glances away again. Tyrell is irritated, for some reason he can't explain.

 

* * *

 

When he’s not busy writing code he hasn’t written in years, he’s browsing the internet and making himself coffee- the instant, Nescafe kind that is surprisingly palatable. He drinks more coffee than water nowadays. There’s the hot water machine, and then there are his 20 + 4 (extra) packs of Nescafe coffee, and sometimes a packet of leftovers Mrs. Alderson might have given him.

He doesn’t know why but he keeps on popping up at their house- perhaps it's the lack of social interaction he can have with anyone else- but regardless of the potential risk, he shows up almost every week sometimes for days at a time.

In truth he doesn’t know if Elliot- if the other Elliot- is liking it at all, but he hasn’t reared his head to say anything yet, so Tyrell will take it as resigned approval.

Elliot never comes to the warehouse, of course. He even rejected the news article Tyrell had offered to him on his phone to read. Tyrell has a fairly good guess of why, but that is _hardly_ his business. But in any case it’s entirely unsurprising that Elliot doesn’t even look when Tyrell leaves and goes back to wherever Elliot assumes Tyrell’s current home is.

Although he does nudge Elliot in the way of getting over it soon. The entire process of this is too slow for his liking.

 

* * *

 

It is, perhaps naturally, inevitable that he starts to be… a little more curious, about Elliot. Inevitable, considering the only person Tyrell interacts with on a regular basis is Elliot.

(he’s always been someone who needs people around him to keep on being himself, who needs the approval, the respect of everyone he knows- without other people around him, he collapses in on himself and isn’t that the truth)

 

* * *

 

Darlene is unexpectedly in the house the next time he visits.

When he sees her, he stops short, blinking in surprise. She looks surprised to see him as well- first surprised, then wary, then grudgingly approving, for some reason he can’t discern for a moment.

She tells him that she’ll be gone soon- she’s only here to check up on things in the house, she doesn’t want Elliot to see her.

And true to that, she leaves after only minutes, so that when Elliot comes back to the house from grocery shopping, backpack crammed to full, it’s only Tyrell waiting for him in the kitchen.

More intrigue, and yet he is not even interested in digging deeper into it.

 

* * *

 

“Well you look worried.”

“And I thought you’d never show up.”

“The _plan_ is unaffected. In the end we’re both gonna get what we want.”

“Well hurry up, I don’t like being kept waiting.”

 

* * *

 

Sometimes without realizing, his phone is already tapped onto his contact information for Joanna before he remembers that his SIM card is broken anyway, that it's lying in a garbage dump somewhere underneath rotten food and old newspapers and he can’t call her even if he wants to.

He wonders sometimes, whether or not the neighbourhood would notice if somebody went missing and turned up with their neck cut in a creek a few days later.

 

* * *

 

In the absence of anything else in his life- he starts focusing on the only important aspect of his daily life instead. Elliot, to be precise.

He should study the man, he reasons- he still can’t read Elliot, and whenever he thinks he has the man’s personality pinpointed down, something happens to make him realize he has him completely wrong. It’s disconcerting to say the least, even if he gets the feeling that there might be two separate people in there.

Unfortunately, the more time he spends around Elliot trying to figure him out, the more his intrigue increases.

And then, one day after he tries to make conversation only to be completely brushed off, he realizes that Elliot Alderson just… doesn’t acknowledge him, not in the way other people do. When he realizes that, he also realizes it must be remedied. There’s disgust mixed there as well, of course, a hint of superiority- but even that doesn’t help when he starts _doing_ things out of a sheer desire to have Elliot notice him.

It might have progressed from a curiousity into the beginnings of what might be an obsession, by that point.

 

* * *

 

And as many things that start as curiousity and turn into obsession, it starts taking a turn into deeper desires as well.

 

* * *

 

On another note: a girl calls in one day- a blonde with bright eyes and long hair, and when Elliot sees her coming down the drive he starts pushing Tyrell out with a sense of urgency that feels fairly misplaced.

“Where do I go?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

Elliot looks at the window, where the girl hasn’t spotted either of them yet, and says, after a moment of fast thinking- “Get out of the room. Go upstairs.”

So, after a moment, he grudgingly does.

He ends up sitting in Elliot’s room for two hours, looking through old photographs and studiously thinking himself too good for eavesdropping, before finally, when he’s fairly sure they’re about to have dinner downstairs, he slips out and jumps down through the window, heading back in the dark. He borrows one of Elliot’s hoodies when he goes- it’s cold outside, and he’s more than a little irritated at Elliot anyway, so he borrows Elliot’s nicest hoodie.

 

* * *

 

“Change of heart?”

“... What change of heart?”

He blinks. “Nevermind.”

 

* * *

 

Apparently Elliot is back to his senses again. He even moves back into the city.

 

* * *

 

Here’s how it starts- mostly just with an idle thought, an insidious- _what would Elliot do, if I kissed him. What face would he make- what eyes would he look at me with._

It ends up at- well, it’s rather too explicit to go into detail with. Needless to say, by that point Tyrell is mostly just waiting for an opportunity to push Elliot against a wall and slant their bodies together and kiss him until all the breath goes out of his lungs.

 

* * *

 

That particular opportunity comes rather unexpectedly soon.

 

* * *

 

The scene as of right now: Tyrell has Elliot against the wall, he’s kissing him, claiming him- and the dry lips under his own are deliciously bitter, yielding to his tongue. His dreams were never as vivid as this, the sense of victory blooming in his chest nowhere near as sweet, as visceral as he feels it now.

The scene a moment after that: there is a thump and then it’s _his_ back colliding against the wall and their positions have been suddenly switched- Tyrell’s pinned by the body pressing up against his, the heat of it penetrating through the thin layers of clothing. He’s disoriented to say the least- disoriented and more than a little surprised.

When he does react, it’s to raise an arm to try and switch their positions yet again- to regain dominance in the exchange- but there’s a look in Elliot’s eye that freezes him short- for a moment his mind almost blanks out at it, and then when he blinks and is back in himself there is a mouth on his mouth and a tongue on his tongue and he tries- he tries to control that kiss, but it feels rather more like he’s being devoured.

He realizes, in a small and insignificant part of him, that whatever passiveness he had thought was there a moment ago was probably just Elliot bewildered as to the change of situation he found himself in.

When Elliot drags down the fabric of his jeans and works him open with spit-slicked fingers (when had he broken their kiss, again)- he’s too dazed to do anything about it- there’s something quite funny about this situation, he thinks, because he feels like he wants to laugh at a realization he has not yet figured out, but he can’t pinpoint what exactly it must be.

His heart is beating so loud, so fast- it must be excitement, it might be fear- he’s hardly felt anything like this before, the heady rush of it in the moment- he wonders if it's fine to lose himself in the feeling.

He does- in a more reserved part of his mind- panic a little though when Elliot removes his fingers and he realizes that it’s not enough- it’s a panic that carries through to the forefront after a moment of delay, and he opens his mouth, he’s not even sure what he wants to say-

But he doesn’t get a chance to say it anyway because Elliot kisses him again- not really a kiss- he brings his mouth to Tyrell’s and it’s too harsh for a kiss, too rough and full of teeth and bite and it swallows up his protest whole until he is gasping for breath, swallowing the air from Elliot’s mouth.

There is no warning between that moment and the next, and then he can feel Elliot inside of him, pushing inside and he _panics_ he has to panic because Elliot’s too big and _he won’t fit_ but Elliot’s not stopping and-

It hurts, _fuck_ it hurts. There’s too much friction and the burn of it is more painful than anything else he thinks he's ever felt- he’s laughing. there are tears in his eyes and his nails are scrabbling, digging into the cheap polyester of Elliot’s clothing for purchase, digging down into skin.

Elliot doesn’t stop, not until he’s all the way in and Tyrell thinks that he might break from it- he’s lost any form of composure by now, is clutching Elliot’s shoulders for support, shuddering despite himself, head buried into the crook of Elliot’s neck, breathing in the man's scent, wetness on his lashes.

The pain doesn’t subside, not even after Elliot stops moving for a moment to give Tyrell some time to get used to it- and when he starts moving, Tyrell doesn’t think he is going to be able to get used to that pain at all. He’s shaking, nails digging deep enough into the material of Elliot’s shirt that he’s certain they must pierce through- and Elliot too is clearly stronger than what he looks like because at this point most of Tyrell’s weight is on him.

It gets better- a little bit anyway- the pain dulls after awhile, perhaps because of the pleasure that somehow manages to pervade through it, and admittedly his hand on his cock might be helping that a little. Perhaps his twisted mind has something wrong with it too, because the pain starts becoming one with the pleasure, or the pleasure overwhelms him despite of it.

-but in any case and needless to say, that particular attempt at seduction doesn’t go quite as planned.

 

* * *

 

What mostly happens after _that_ is Tyrell pretending not to feel sore and consequently feeling sore for the next day, and the morning after it.

He ends up hulking down afterwards in a bathroom and trying to apply coconut oil in an attempt to soothe the burn. Perhaps predictably, it doesn’t work. Or maybe it works a little bit, but he’s not sure if that’s just a placebo effect or not.

It hurts to even touch so he ends up giving up after approximately five minutes, instead preferring to curl up in his makeshift room and try to sleep it off.

Throughout all of this of course, he studiously ignores the fact that Elliot has just fucked him and he’s fairly sure he moaned throughout most of it- and right he stops thinking about that _there_ and starts thinking about anything else instead.

 

* * *

 

He hopes, in a stab of sudden and vicious righteousness, that Elliot knows that was his virginity he just took.

 

* * *

 

He takes back that statement.

 

* * *

 

That night he stays up and codes until it is 8 in the morning and he has not slept and his hair looks like a mess from him running his hand over it so often and it must have been an adequate distraction because by the end of it he falls asleep too tired to think about anything else.

The finished program lies on his screen, innocuous, more than five hundred lines of it- it’s his first draft, he hasn’t even tested it yet for bugs. Next to his laptop, a scribbled sheet of paper, scrawled and messy handwriting detailing what looks like a complicated flowchart (Tyrell Wellick’s handwriting was always neat and small, the barest hint of cursive, but that never really came naturally).

It might take weeks to debug, and he’d just started ignoring any red underlines towards the last hundred lines of code but at least now the core program is done in a sudden and concentrated block of 10 hour coding.

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately, the night after that is less innocuous, and that one time that he had sex with Elliot a long time ago (see: two days ago) is not about to happily leave his mind and disappear into the horizon.

He ignores the looming identity crisis.

 

* * *

 

Eventually he starts visiting Elliot’s apartment often enough to just move in with Elliot. Wearing a hoodie and covering his face on the streets was fun while it lasted, but he’d just prefer not to.

 

* * *

 

Even if Elliot is avoiding touching him or even looking at him directly. He’s a little put out by that.

 

* * *

 

“You should eat more,” Elliot says one day, out of nowhere, when Tyrell is still sipping at his scorching espresso, the television reporting about a bombing that had occurred in downtown Manhattan.

Tyrell looks at him, utterly blank.

Elliot says, “I’ll cook for you.”

And Tyrell had not realized he had wanted to try Elliot’s cooking before Elliot said this, mostly because Elliot hasn’t really cooked before except for putting instant packaged meals in microwaves. So that’s fair enough.

 

* * *

 

Except Elliot’s cooking is terrible.

Really terrible. He might almost compare the dish of par-boiled spaghetti in front of him with the instant noodles he used to make back in his cramped room in university.

He eats it anyway, because Elliot cooked it.

So the next day, Tyrell offers to make dinner instead and sets himself studiously to the task. He needs to show Elliot how it's done after all.

“Bucatini with marinara sauce and ricotta,” he says, with a smile (and to be honest he could have just said spaghetti with tomato sauce and cheese but this sounds fancier) and no matter what he does he is always going to be good at it.

(and he hasn’t cooked for anyone since Joanna, and he’s never cooked for anyone else and he remembers that in the middle of the evening and tries to rid himself of the sudden stab of pain in his chest)

Elliot looks at it and blinks, and eats it all, so that’s a plus.

 

* * *

 

He watches the television sometimes. Always the news, always on the stock markets, on finance, on the economy’s collapse- getting worse every day. E-corp is already rebuilding- trying to salvage what it can.

Joanna had told him to fix this. He will. _He will_.

The program sitting on his laptop is done now, he’s not sure why he hasn’t run it through with Elliot yet. Maybe because the man hasn’t yet asked.

(there’s a USB drive in his pocket he doesn’t let go of, and he takes care in making sure Elliot doesn’t ever take notice of it- a USB drive and a worry that worms its way inside his mind)

 

* * *

 

After a little hesitation, he gives the program to Elliot to look through and see if any changes need to be made.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t remember what exactly it is that suddenly is making them having angry hate-sex (at least it's on the bed this time) but. Well, whatever it is, it most definitely worked.

Except that this time the rematch turns out in Elliot’s favour as well, and Tyrell somehow finds himself on the bottom.

Again.

When he opens his mouth to try and speak- try, before he can even get the words out, there is a sudden pressure on his throat, fingers pressing against his windpipe with crushing force as if to prevent him from even doing that. And even the semi-sarcastic thought of ‘great’ ends up losing against the more pressing concern of- my throat is getting crushed.

He tries his hardest not to fight back, fingers scrabbling against their instinct to wrench Elliot away, and instead he digs his fingers into Elliot’s back, his nails hurting from the pressure of doing so. There is a laugh bubbling up inside of him, but he can’t even get enough breath to try letting it out.

He thinks Elliot must see it though, because the pressure increases until he’s choking on it, his eyes are watering and he’s crying- he must be, there are tears blurring his vision and he can’t breathe- and then Elliot is thrusting inside of him and it _hurts_ but there’s a heady pleasure taking over him, the lightheadedness making his vision swim and the places where Elliot’s skin touches him burn with heat that travels to his bones.

There’s a parallel to this situation, an ironic one, the thing that might be making the laughter bubble up inside of him, but his thoughts are scattered and he can’t think of what it is so he thinks of the pleasure instead, and loses himself in it.

In the end he turns into a babbling mess after all.

 

* * *

 

The blonde comes around only later that day, and this time Elliot has no time to shove Tyrell into a closet. She stares at Tyrell for a long time, and then stares at Elliot for a long time. Tyrell leaves the room so they can talk.

(of course, he eavesdrops enough to get the gist of their conversation- mostly surrounding him and then surrounding Elliot. She sounds rather defeated at the end of it though, so Tyrell presumes he won’t need to abruptly leave.)

When he comes back into the room after a prolonged absence, the girl- Angela- looks over at Tyrell, eyes lingering for a long moment before she looks away. When she does, her gaze flickers down for a moment- looking at his tie, perhaps- before she shakes her head wordlessly.

“Fine,” she tells Elliot.

Elliot looks relieved. The Elliot version of relief, that is.

“I’ll, go make you coffee.” He says, after a moment of silence, and promptly exits the room.

That leaves the both of them alone in the room together, and Tyrell pulls himself up a chair and sits down, intent on making himself comfortable even if the girl isn’t going to.

She doesn't stop looking at him though- not quite at his eyes, and then when she meets them again it's like she wants to say something. As if she's searching for the words for it and can't find them- Tyrell's seen the type. Well, he can wait.

What she says after a moment though is, “If you do anything to him, you won’t get away with it.”

Tyrell glances at her, quirks an eyebrow. If that’s what it was… he has to admit he is completely unimpressed.

Still, he should probably reassure her, “That’s completely not my intention.”

(there's still something else, something in her gaze- it hasn't left and he wonders what it was she might have said)

 

* * *

 

It’s only later that he looks in the mirror and sees the purple and green bruise that colours his neck in the shape of a handprint, the imprint of fingers still visible in the hollows of his throat, splotchy and blue.

He thinks that maybe Angela hadn’t been looking at his tie after all.

And then, a moment after that, he’s angry suddenly. Angry for a reason he can’t quite explain, nor put his finger on. Perhaps he’s angry that he had forgotten about the marks at all, angry that he had let them show. That Elliot had even left them on him in the first place.

It’s his fault, he thinks to himself, he knew something like that would happen if he riled Elliot up enough.

But that doesn’t quiet the anger-- nor does it get rid of the cold feeling inside him, a twisting ball of it in the pit of his stomach. The feeling of- _you’re not in control any more, you’re not in control of yourself, of anything_.

He closes his eyes, and the feeling goes away.

(it stays coiled deep down low, and it stays with him)

He ends up confronting Elliot over it anyway- just to soothe his pride potentially, or what little of it he still feels he has left.

Elliot, to his credit, doesn’t say anything until Tyrell is done. Actually, he doesn’t say anything after Tyrell is done either, just looks at him with a little frown on his face like he’s trying to figure something out, or how to proceed next.

And then, unpredictably, apparently Elliot has decided the best way to resolve this is to kiss him because there’s a mouth on his, prying apart his lips, a hand dragging under his shirt and at that Tyrell jerks his head away, eyes widening and irritation momentarily forgotten because even if it’s _great_ that Elliot seems to have gotten over his aversion of sex with Tyrell-- he’s still sore from earlier.

“Wait,” he says, quickly, maybe too quickly, “We already did it this morning-”

And that conversation certainly goes well.

 

* * *

 

No, no it doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

In a sudden slew of visits to the apartment, Darlene comes only a few days after. Tyrell’s turned to wearing a jacket with a high collar, and he thinks, at least, that it hides all of the bruises.

She still looks at him oddly- and on that note she has apparently decided that it’s suddenly not important for her to avoid Elliot. Her eyes are piercing- more piercing as usual. As if she still wants to talk to him- probably on the bruise he'd gotten those couple days ago, but in the end she never says it.

 

* * *

 

They start fucking regularly, and apparently after that violent hatesex session Elliot’s gotten over his previous vow of ‘let's avoid touching Tyrell as much as possible’. They even manage to fuck in the kitchen, Tyrell bent over the table, lips on his neck, a hand in his hair- the neighbours next door thankfully out.

 

* * *

 

A pro: Elliot never looks at that table in the same way ever again.

It's morning and Tyrell comes into the kitchen intending to make himself a cup of coffee (black, no sugar, and at least that won’t change even if there’s only instant Nescafe gold)- when he notices Elliot. Elliot who is, interestingly enough, not sat at the table, but instead hovering at the counter where Tyrell usually hovers.

Intriguing.

Elliot doesn’t seem to have realized he’s come into the room yet (but then, he never does), so with a cough, Tyrell begins- “Good morning, Elliot.”

There’s a start, and Elliot turns to look at him, head twisting to the side. He blinks, gaze flickering almost imperceptibly to the table, before back to Tyrell. He opens his mouth and closes it again. Blinks. And for someone who Tyrell has never seen flush, there’s something quite akin to it in his expression.

Tyrell smirks.

 

* * *

 

“You sure this is alright? Won’t that wife of yours be upset.”

“She’s always been fine with this.”

“Mhm, if you say so.”

 

* * *

 

Night. Elliot’s asleep, and Tyrell is staring at the white, glowing screen in front of him.

Absentmindedly he fingers the USB drive in his shirt pocket- it’s been there since he came here, innocuous and innocent. He glances towards the closed bedroom door and wonders, in a sudden moment of clarity, how exactly it came to this.

Soon, he tells himself with conviction, a conviction that perhaps he does not fully feel. He thinks of his son, of his wife, and he swallows. He knows what Joanna would say to him, knows what eyes she would look at him with- and he shakes his head, closes his eyes for a moment but that doesn’t help- hopes that he is making the right decision.

The aftermath will be what it will, and he’ll deal with it when it comes to that.

 

* * *

 

But sometimes, he just does not understand how this happens. It’s night, Elliot is asleep- with the exception that Tyrell is in his bed too, and Elliot is curled into him, head buried in Tyrell’s chest and otherwise just pressing every single available inch of body against him.

How does this manage to happen.

He resists the urge to run his hands through Elliot’s hair.

 

* * *

 

“You’re mine, Tyrell,” Elliot tells him suddenly, breaking the silence between them.

He bites back a groan, wondering why Elliot has decided in the middle of sex is the best time to say things like this.

“No, listen-” Elliot is insistent, stilling in his thrusts even as his grip tightens hard enough on Tyrell’s wrist that the circulation at his fingers must, at some point, cut off, “You’re mine.”

“Yeah, got it,” he mutters, and Elliot looks at him for a moment, his gaze almost disappointed before he leans down and kisses Tyrell, and the bemusement at the unexpected conversation goes out of mind.

Afterwards, in the dark of the room, he flexes his fingers and wonders what Elliot had meant. Sometimes he really doesn’t understand the man.

 

* * *

 

“Hey. Was it you, or him. All of this.”

“Why the sudden curiousity?”

“It’s a simple question.”

“Does it matter? We’re both the same person.”

 

* * *

 

Elliot approaches him one evening and says, “I think we can start planning on how to implement it now.” He sounds determined, if nothing else.

Without saying anything, Tyrell nods.

 

* * *

 

Angela has become a regular visitor for some reason. Elliot even seems to not mind her presence- so Tyrell makes himself keep the sneer at a minimum.

Sometimes she ends up knocking and entering even when Elliot is out. Mostly just to put groceries in the fridge and leave- she tells Tyrell once that it’s simply because she’s checking up on him and making sure he’s okay.

Tyrell tolerates her. Barely.

But today is a little different, for some unknown reason. She looks at Tyrell, hesitant and slow, and looks like she wants to say something. He hopes she’ll just spit it out quickly.

“Are you alright?” She asks finally.

He stares.

Before he can speak, she carries on, “I don’t know what’s going on between you and Elliot, but… look. Whatever it is, it’s not healthy.”

He continues on staring.

“...” She huffs a sigh, glaring at him before she mutters, “Just… look. I don’t like you, but if you ever need anything, you can come to me.”

She _really_ doesn’t get it, does she.

 

* * *

 

“Tyrell.”

He looks up, looks at Elliot. He blinks.

Elliot just looks at him for a moment- looks right at him- before he says, quite bluntly, “You’re mine.”

He blinks again (for a moment he’s thrown). His mouth opens and closes again, and he’s not sure what to say to that. Elliot apparently senses the abrupt awkwardness too, because he flushes- the tips of his ears go pink- and for lack of a better word he flees.

Huh.

(his hand tightens on the glass he’s holding, and it’s only when he’s aware it might crack does he let the grip of his fingers loosen, white at the tips)

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t work.

_It doesn’t work._

 

* * *

 

He slams Elliot against the wall, “What did you do.” He hisses, and it’s panic whirling chaotically within him, controlled, controlled panic, about to swallow him whole- “ _What did you do_.”

Elliot laughs- a choked sound- he laughs and Tyrell presses him harder against the wall, his fingers trembling against the urge to bash the man’s head against the wall until it splits open and- when Elliot replies, he’s still laughing, eyes cold and amused and Tyrell hates them the blue of them the cold of them- “Did you really think I’d let you have it? I knew from the moment you came to me what you were planning.”

He does bash Elliot’s head against the wall this time- red at the edges of his vision, the anger mixing with the panic, the anger inside the panic- he wonders what it would take to split the man’s head open, to break his skull- “ _What did you do with it_.”

“It’s gone.” And the laughter is gone as soon as it had appeared- and when Elliot looks at Tyrell, his gaze is darker, colder than anything else he has seen before, and Tyrell is shaking, with the anger, with the fear, with the panic that threatens to overwhelm- there’s red that stains Elliot’s hair, that slides down his neck- “You never had it. And I told you, didn’t I? It would self delete after it completed. It’s gone, Tyrell- all of it, forever.”

And that. That. That’s what makes him snap into the cold of his reality. The anger bleeds out as easily as it had come, leaves him empty.

Joanna, he thinks, helplessly, _Joanna_.

He lets Elliot go. His hands are shaking. His hands are cold. He stumbles away, breathing unsteady and erratic, loud in his ears but far away all the same. He’s shaking, all of him is shaking, his knees unsteady his legs unable to support his weight. There’s a chair. He sits down. The carpet he stares at unseeingly is a dull green, dirty and unwashed. He doesn’t notice.

There are steps approaching him, but he can’t react to them, not even to the stained black trainers that come into view on the carpet. When he looks up, dizzy and light-headed, reality still swimming around him, Elliot is looking at him, something close to sympathy, to kindness in his gaze. Tyrell does not understand.

“What… what do I do?” He asks, and his voice is unsteady, helpless, about to break- and maybe it does break.

Gently, Elliot takes hold of Tyrell’s cheek, lifts his head up so that he is looking at Elliot directly. His fingers are cold, his touch almost does not feel real. Tyrell can’t break Elliot’s gaze, desperately- helplessly- searching for something- anything in them.

“Finish this,” Elliot tells him, softly, kindly, and Tyrell hangs onto every word, unable to do anything but, “Finish this with me.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: so this would have done a lot better as a multi-chapter fic, so i could go in for all the character development and shit, and put in more mystery towards the motives, but… n_n effort amirite. I didn’t have the time and i wanted this out- plus i’d never finish it if i made it multi-chaptered >.>
> 
>  **So if this was too convoluted, here’s the basic premise** : Tyrell (thinks that he) has a copy of the encryption key, and he intends to use it to secure his place in the new world order- it’s why he worked together with Mr. Robot in the first place. But Mr. Robot also managed to persuade him to work with him to take E-corp down completely for revenge- and besides, he needs to clear his name of the cyberterrorist thing first doesn’t he- wait for things to die down a little, for the full consequences of the hack to show. And then at the end when he /does/ finally betray Mr. Robot/Elliot, it’s revealed that at some point the key was switched and Tyrell doesn’t have the encryption key. If that… makes sense.
> 
> I am also like this close to writing something from elliot’s pov for this but
> 
> herp 
> 
> effort amirite
> 
> but if you got this far into this end note have a random elliot paragraph as a reward anyhow.
> 
> \---
> 
> His breath catches when he gazes at Tyrell, the sight of him. It’s- indescribable, the pain twisted on the man’s pale features, the blue of his eyes and the sheen of his skin- he’s gasping, trembling, his soft lips parted, and he hasn’t seen Tyrell like this ever before, all of the barriers about him ripped away and now that the facade is gone he looks so--
> 
> (there is a desire sparking in him to see it more- to make Tyrell tremble and shudder and cry, and he can see it so clearly, how he would look broken and shaking, his hair in disarray- the look in his eyes when he would make Tyrell look at him- and it might be the darkest part of him that is speaking, something twisted and broken and wanting, but it’s so close to the surface, so close to breaking the water)
> 
> Without thinking, he’s leaning forward, taking Tyrell’s mouth into a kiss- and Tyrell makes a little, broken sound when he does, almost a whimper, almost a moan, and then he opens his mouth and lets Elliot in.
> 
> And Tyrell tastes sweet, sweet like apples and tea and spring water and not in the way he should and- Elliot runs his tongue along the insides of Tyrell’s teeth, his gums, his lip, and then he bites down until the sweetness goes away and he can taste the blood.
> 
> When he breaks away for air, breathing heavy, Tyrell’s eyes have slipped shut- and even his eyelashes look pretty when they’re trembling, so delicate and long- (an image flickers through his mind of how Tyrell would look crying, the tears catching on his lashes and his mouth opening in shuddering gasps)- and the desire rises again, rises until it breaks the surface and he loses himself in the flow.
> 
> \---
> 
> It turned from ‘a paragraph’ into ‘paragraphs’.
> 
> Welp, happy very-late-birthday to me!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
